


each night like a white noise frequency

by Phierie



Series: Black Holes and Revelations (Ironstrange Oneshots) [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (probably) not canon compliant after IW, Communication, Guilt, Hurt Stephen Strange, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, One Shot, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Pre-Relationship, Pretty Angst Heavy, Rated M for graphic/horror/gore imagery, Stephen Strange-centric, Wong is a good friend, discussion of events in IW, further disclaimers in notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-10 18:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17431616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phierie/pseuds/Phierie
Summary: Stephen is no stranger to making hard choices. He doesn’t regret his actions on Titan, but months later they weigh on his mind heavier than ever; the cracks begin to show.





	each night like a white noise frequency

**Author's Note:**

> • This fic takes place in a post-IW-post-A4-everything-is-fixed sorta setting, but it’s fairly ambiguous and I didn’t really focus on how everything is undone (it’s a one shot based on character interaction, so all I'll say is: just roll with it)  
> • Also canon relationships (i.e. Tony and Pepper) are pretty much ignored, but I wrote this with the intent that they’re not together at this point in time. Feel free to interpret that as you like best.

In the months following Thanos, Stephen has been keeping busy. He’s not sure what exactly about the annihilation - and subsequent revival - of half the universe sent ripples into the mystical world, but it must have been _something_ , because the sorcerers of Kamar-Taj have been worked off their feet recently.

So busy, in fact, that he’s barely seen heads nor tails of the Avengers in that time. Small victories.

It’s not like they parted on bad terms, mind. The last time Stephen saw him, Tony Stark was keying his number into Stephen’s clunky second-hand smartphone, eyebrows raised all the while, before making a casual, if loaded offer about Stephen officially joining the Avengers.

Stephen had plastered a polite smile on his best poker face and firmly refused. Excusing it with something or other he’d made up on the spot about Kamar-Taj and the need to keep magic and the outside world separate, but the truth was, it was simply a promise too far.

Stephen has found, lately, he’s exceptionally bad at keeping promises. It’s for the best.

Especially given the way Stephen’s throat tightens around Tony in particular; how he can think of nothing but the way the man’s bloodied face looked through the bright green glow of the time stone floating between his fingers. And where the familiar weight of the Eye of Agamotto used to sit on his chest, suddenly there is a void which feels so much worse than before.

Stephen thought it best not to linger on the questioning look Tony gave him back then, and feigned ignorance as he tried not to think about broken memories of futures never to be. He already knows Tony, too well in some respects, and so he knew there was nothing Tony could’ve said to change his mind.

Perhaps selfishly, Stephen is in a way glad about the recent surge of mystical activity throughout the dimensions. The less time alone he has to spend thinking about Titan, and Tony Stark, the better.

It’s an average day of the new normal when Stephen stumbles back through a portal into the Sanctum’s foyer, heart beating hard with leftover adrenaline and forearm stinging from the gash cut in it through the wrappings, fabric stained dark crimson. Wong glances over it and gives him one of his looks, stern and perhaps betraying a slight hint of emotion, as Stephen passes him on the stairs; Stephen waves him off with reassurances that it’s not that deep and (probably) not poisoned, and yes, he is aware of the situation with the kelpies in the Hudson and would get round to it as soon as possible but it would have to wait behind the soul leeches in Harlem and the demonically possessed building in Hell’s Kitchen.

He’s only just finished bandaging his arm (a little roughly, but it’ll do), gloves discarded over the back of an armchair, when his mobile rings from where it’s sat on a table across his study. His heart skips a beat when he walks over and sees the name _Stark_ on the screen.

Because if Tony’s calling about something out of the blue, it’s probably nothing good. Stephen answers immediately.

“Stark,” he greets, and is met by the muffled sounds of a battle in the background. On the other end Tony gives a huff of relief.

“ _Strange, thank god, I’ve been trying to reach you for – ugh, whatever, doesn’t matter. We need backup, if you’d be so inclined as to lend a magical hand_.”

“Where are you?” Stephen asks sharply, not bothering to ask what the situation even is. He’ll find out soon enough.

“ _Central Park -!”_

“What?” Stephen rushes out of his study, almost colliding with Wong in the corridor. “Wong,” he breathes in acknowledgement and hurries to inform him, “It’s Tony, there’s an emergency, secure the Sanctum!” With that he conjures a portal in one fluid motion, steps through without hesitation into the sky above Central Park.

He skims the area and quickly finds the battle – there’s a huge hole in the ground which creatures are pouring out of, at least seven feet tall each, black-gold skin and multiple arms. Not magical in the slightest, which at least explains why Stephen managed to completely miss this.

The Avengers are split up in a circle around the pit and holding back the creatures. It seems like they have minimal, if any sentience, so Stephen doesn’t feel bad when the magic disc he conjures and throws embeds itself into the nearest one’s forehead.

“Hey Doc, glad you could make it!” Tony says as he flies over to Stephen, a few feet above the creatures, sending blasts through their ranks with his repulsors and the nanotech blasters hovering over his shoulders. “We’ve evacuated within a perimeter of five blocks, police and army are on standby there. Ideally we don’t want to let them leave the park.”

“What are we dealing with?” Stephen replies, having to yell to be heard.

“Seems our late friends at Thanos’s fanclub left us a little present.” With bands like molten metal Stephen holds a creature in place long enough for Steve Rogers to crack it’s head open with a shield, as Tony explains, “Remember Squidward and that big guy? They must have planted this in the ground they day they came to earth. Flew under the radar what with everything else that happened back then. Maybe these bastards needed a couple months to mature before they popped out to say hi.”

Tony’s words give Stephen a sinking feeling. He’s sure any one of the creatures could tear him apart in an instant if he touched the ground, so Stephen stays in the air and provides support; portals appear in an instant and whisk away an Avenger surrounded and outnumbered; a creature about to get a killing blow in someone’s blind spot is cut in half in a flourish of amber sparks; isolated ones picked off by conjured lightning when the chance arises.

The Avengers are just about pushing back the onslaught and the numbers of the aliens have thinned significantly, but the team tires, it won’t be enough. It’s _not_ enough, if things continue like this there will be casualties, and when the creatures make it through into the city, even worse. Stephen flies higher up in the air, to a vantage point where he can see the whole battlefield, golden sparks jumping from his fingers out of control from the nervous energy he usually feels before he does something incredibly stupid.

On the ground below, Iron Man falters, Carol Danvers is brought to her knees, and Stephen knows - it’s time. These people are not going to die while he still draws breath.  

Stephen wills all the magic in the air to him, reaches out into the aether and _takes_ , everything he can, consequences be damned. The burning sensation just proves it’s working. By all counts it should be too much for anyone to handle; Stephen just hopes he can hold on for the five seconds it takes to cast the banishment spell. What happens after that is in fate’s hands.

In a fierce amber glow that alights the battlefield for a second, the creatures disappear. Save for a few stragglers outside the range of the spell, which are quickly picked off by the others. Stephen just has time to take in the scene below him, the awed hush, before pain shoots through his body and his vision is clouded by black.

His cloak, literal lifesaver that it is, steers him the ground, but his legs are uncooperating and give out beneath him. A steadying arm appears and catches his shoulders, and Stephen leans into the cold metal, a welcome respite from the magic which still burns in his veins, pain so intense he can barely think of anything else. His forehead comes to rest against a curved surface – a shoulder? – and he involuntarily lets out a moan.

“---ange? Strange ---------- me ? Stephen?”

The world is eerily quiet, muffled, and Stephen distantly acknowledges that he should probably be worried about that. Though it’s only a worry if he’s _actually_ dying, and that – he knows what that feels like. But it’s hard to compare, what with the dizziness. He tries to mumble something about being okay in a few minutes to the figure at his side, but even as he does everything starts to fade, save for the broken voice he focuses on.

“FRI ---------- scan -- his vitals? ---phen, Stephen stay ------ okay? Eyes open, ---- with me.”

The pain eventually subsides to a dull baseline, and when the spots clouding his vision start to clear Stephen finds he’s on the ground, back resting against a park bench. Chatter from the other Avengers, standing in a group a little way off, reaches his ears. The spider-kid - Peter Parker - makes to walk over but someone pulls him back with a question, and Stephen counts his blessings. Knelt beside him is Tony, still wearing his armour but without the helmet, and when Stephen looks to him with more focused eyes his face seems to soften.

“Hey,” he starts, and his voice is a lot softer too than ten minutes ago. “You okay?”

“More or less,” Stephen replies, his own voice coming out more slurred than intended.

Tony frowns and glances away to the other group. “The medics are here, you should get yourself seen to -”

“I’m fine,” Stephen interrupts. “It’s… a magic thing. Not a scratch on me, see?”

Tony looks unconvinced and frankly Stephen can’t blame him. But he gets to his feet all the same, hoisting himself up on the bench, staggers a little when he’s upright.

“At least come back to the compound with us. You need to rest, properly, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Stephen thinks of the kelpies and the soul leeches and all the rest of it and he’s about to decline, no matter what Tony says, but when he so much as thinks about conjuring a portal back to the Sanctum he sways on his feet, cloak the only thing keeping him from the ground. Perhaps Tony’s idea isn’t such a terrible one after all. Stephen looks over to meet his eyes and simply nods.

 

\--

 

Stephen Strange stands alone in front of the large circular window of the New York Sanctum. The window is a comfort, a familiarity - Stephen often finds himself here, watching the city outside, now painted in blurred shades of grey and black.

He can’t seem to remember why he is here right now, but for some reason the window seems to call to him, beckoning with the promise of secrets. He reaches a hand – missing his tan leather gloves, rare for him these days – towards the glass. The pink scars covering the back of his hand mirror the lines crisscrossing the pane of the window.

When Stephen’s hand comes into contact with the window there’s a flash, a jolt of cold through his veins, and the scene changes abruptly. The window remains unmoved, but light now streaks through the glass – warm, orange light. The interior of the Sanctum gone. Only the window remains, floating a few feet off the ground.

Instead there lies a vast expanse – an orange sky, a still lake of dark red. Stephen’s throat tightens at the sight, his breathing shallowed, because he _knows_ this place, this prison. This accursed dimension where nothing is real and souls are left to rot for eternity.

The window of the Sanctum sits unmoving in front of him, mocking.

But how, why, is he here? He thought they had won – Tony and the other Avengers. It’s not supposed to be like this. Wasn’t there a plan – _he_ had a plan, he is sure – why can’t he remember?

Breathing hard and erratic now, Stephen takes a few stumbling steps back. His foot hits something. Something solid, _real_ , like him. That’s never happened before.

He glances to his feet, wary, but curious. A solid lump rests against the back of his boot. Stephen nudges the object and his blood turns cold when it flops over revealing a human skull. It’s not the only one, either; the lake is filled with bones, bodies, Stephen can’t believe he didn’t notice them sooner.

He runs from the sight, hard and fast, but still the scene never changes. At one point Stephen stumbles; instinctively he holds his arms out in front of him to break his fall but goes tumbling into the somehow solid surface of the lake. Bones jut out towards him and a skull stares dangerously close to his face. He staggers to his feet as fast as possible.

Panicked breathing gets even faster and the orange sky swirls above him; he lifts a hand to cover his mouth but freezes when he sees it, a foreign form, pale skin dyed dark red. Red – the lake is so red, crimson, so dark in places it’s black. It stains the front of his robes now too. His feet shift on the surface and the liquid thickly swirls around his boots. It’s not water, he dully realises, and gags.

“Oh, _gods_ ,” Stephen mutters to himself, takes a few breaths, tries to force calm. Whatever happened here – this is not the soul dimension as Stephen has known it before. So why the difference?

His memories are hazy and lie just out of reach, but he strains to backtrack through the events that led up to this point – through the invasion on earth and the journey to Titan. To those fourteen million futures, and what events he saw to set in motion.

Suddenly he remembers, like a flash of sick inspiration, and paws stupidly at his chest – hoping against all logic – but the Eye of Agamotto is gone. It was destroyed on Titan, of course, the most powerful relic in existence, the infinity stone, that which he swore he would give his life to protect.

And the time stone – he gave it away.

The realisation is a dull weight in his chest; _he_ caused this.

Stephen falls to his knees amidst the bodies. It starts as a numbness, and perhaps that’s preferable, because next a fierce burning overtakes his body. Not a physical pain but one he feels all the same, sharp, white-hot, piercing, _guilt_. It’s agonising and terrible and not nearly enough.

He wishes he were back in the Dark Dimension, a foolish, selfish thought, but dying – _dying_! Oh, it was so _easy_ compared to this.

Pack him up, send him back to Dormammu, and maybe a few more thousand painful deaths will start him on the road to absolution. Or perhaps he’s already way beyond that.

He curses his arrogance, for all the good it’ll do now – and how is it he’s learnt nothing at all, even after all this time? Always thinking he can _fix_ everything, solve it all, playing god with half the lives in the universe as he did. And the gall to still call himself a doctor. He doesn’t deserve to, not now, after everything. This existence is proof; they lost.

He’s not sure how long he stays like that, orange world swirling through his blurred vision, but eventually something in the distance catches Stephen’s eye and he lifts his head to look over properly. As unlikely as it seems, forms begin to appear in the orange haze.

Numbly Stephen gets to his feet and walks towards the scene materialising before him. A large, broad figure, taller than a human. The Titan. He faces a smaller man, hunched over and nursing what looks to be a small blade stuck in his abdomen. Orange light reflects off what is left of his metallic armour, glinting like a star.

“Tony?” Stephen croaks out in question, voice barely above a whisper. It makes no sense, but it’s definitely him. Despair diffuses even further through Stephen’s heart at the sight.

Somehow Tony hears him and looks over, wincing from how the blade shifts as he does so. His eyes look so pained and betrayed; Stephen knows, he has seen those eyes before.

“Why, Stephen?” Tony calls softly, pleadingly, voice contorted through the pain. “Why would you do this?”

Stephen shakes his head in reply; his mouth opens but no words come. He holds that gaze even though it feels like his heart is splintering, everything is breaking. “I’m sorry,” he breathes out in a whisper. “…I never… I’m so sorry.”

The Titan tires of listening. He strides over, gauntleted hand grasping Tony around the throat and lifting him feet above the ground. Stephen finds himself paralyzed, unable to do anything but look on as Tony’s body slumps to the floor a few seconds later.

Thanos turns to Stephen, and part of him dares to hope. But the Titan only looks down at him with pensive eyes that don’t belong on such a monster and turns away.

And Stephen starts sinking. _Literally_ sinking, into the red lake – he feels hands on his legs, dragging him down and a primal fear engulfs his heart, one he thought he’d forgot, and he wants to resist and scream out but he has no energy left to do either.

By hands that pull at his entire body his head is dragged below the surface; he sinks further into the lake which is like cold water now, deeper and deeper, until –

 

 

Stephen wakes with a start, gasping for air. He bolts upright, scrambling into a sitting position – wasn’t he drowning a second ago? – and roughly jerks away when he feels hands on his shoulders.

“Stephen? Shit, are you okay?”

_Tony._

Stephen’s eyes snap to his side from where the voice was heard, too fast, too focused, too much all at once. His freefalling mind only stops when he sees the man leant over the bedside, but violently, like hitting the pavement.

Tony frowns when he does not answer. Stephen barely even gives a thought to forming words because all he can think of is how Tony is _here_ , in front of him, and he – he looks okay? That’s surprising, considering just a moment ago, Tony – he was –

“Hey. Hey, Stephen?”

Stephen can barely hear Tony’s soft words over the blood that pounds in his ears; the ringing which only gets louder when the broken images flood his recall. Something floats over, red fills his vision, and just like that it clicks; everything tips over the edge.

“I - I’m sorry,” Stephen gasps out, muffled under the hand pressed firmly against his mouth. “I’m so – I’m so sorry, Tony…”

The apologies come spilling out in broken gasps, everything he needs to say, but they feel weak on Stephen’s ears, and the paralyzing guilt creeps higher and higher in a chill up his spine until it’s a skeletal hand wrapped tight around his throat. He’s afraid to know what Tony sees in him then, because the expression he wears is something incomprehensible. Fear, perhaps, flits across his features the most, and Stephen can only think it fitting. Is he not a monster, after all.

“Woah woah woah, hey, shhh. It’s alright.” Reassurances break through his murmuring; Stephen feels hands reach out for his shoulders again – but hesitant this time, feather-light. The bed next to Stephen sinks as Tony rests a knee on the edge of the mattress to lean in closer.

“Stephen, breathe, okay?” Tony instructs, and he tries. “Look at me.” Stephen does – he looks into wide almond eyes, time-worn creases around which are now crinkled into a worried frown. Which is a mistake, because now he is sure he never wants to look away again.

“You’re alright,” Tony says, voice tinged with concern but firm, grounding. “It’s okay. Whatever it was – it’s alright, now. It was just a bad dream.”

Tony’s hand moves from his shoulder to brush the side of his face, keeping Stephen’s head up. He dares not look away under Tony’s scrutinising eyes, and the gentle contact – fleeting but _real_ , he is sure – gradually brings Stephen back to his senses. He takes a few deep breaths. It was just a nightmare. Because of course it was, no matter how much reality seems to blur to him as of late. Of course Tony is fine.

Stephen feels his cheeks heating slightly and glances away; Tony’s hands drop away. He wishes he could but he just can’t hold that gaze – so sharp and canny, as it always is. It burns, and cuts him to the bone, and seems as if from a single look Tony could reach inside of him and tear out every mistake, every bad decision, every misstep.

A red shape moves to the side of Stephen and he stiffens for a second before recognising it this time, the Cloak of Levitation, flattened against the bed on top of the other blankets. Stephen reaches out a hand and the cloak meets him halfway, leaning into his touch like a cat, faded satin lining smooth against his skin.

“Um…” he begins quietly, now words are back with him. “Yeah. I - thanks.”

“You’re okay?” Tony asks with a hard edge of concern. He moves to sit lightly on the edge of the bed in front of Stephen, hands fidgeting with nothing in particular. “FRIDAY… I asked her to keep an eye on you, and all of a sudden she told me your vitals were going crazy. But it was just a nightmare?”

“Right,” Stephen confirms. He doesn’t mention the fact that magic does weird things to the body’s physiology, so really that was an exercise in futility in the first place, because Tony really doesn’t need to know. “Check for yourself, I’m fine.”

Stephen rubs at his eyes, as if that’ll chase away the remnants of the dream (it doesn’t), then blinks and takes in the unfamiliar scenery that a moment ago seemed utterly insignificant in comparison to the man standing in front of him.

The room is a modern, airy space with floor to ceiling windows overlooking green trees and lawn, dulled in the twilight. The minimalistic décor and stark lack of any signifying personal effects suggest to Stephen a spare bedroom in the Avengers compound is probably a fair guess.

Pain in his arm draws his attention and it’s only then that Stephen notices he’s wearing a sweater that is most definitely _not his_ ; his blue shirt and tunic are draped over a chair in the corner of the room and his boots lie next to the bed. When Stephen pushes his sleeve up he’s surprised to see fresh bandages covering his wound from earlier. There’s a softness that spreads in Stephen’s chest as he looks at the neat white wrappings, almost enough to make him forget.

As far as the events leading up to the present go: Stephen remembers the battle in the park, the banishment spell, and he vaguely remembers stumbling onto a quinjet. And then here.

“So, uh… what happened?” Stephen asks quietly, breaking the awkward silence, grateful to have something else to talk about. “After the battle, I mean.”

“You don’t remember?” Tony frowns, but Stephen doesn’t say anything, so he continues, “well, when we got back to the compound you basically passed out straight away, to be fair. You’ve only been asleep a couple hours though.”

Stephen nods. “Alright. Thanks.”

“Stephen, you…” Tony begins, and that soft, concerned tone to his voice is back and Stephen can’t bear it; he shifts his feet out of the bed and into his boots as Tony speaks. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seemed… pretty upset just now,” Tony states, getting to his feet as well, searchingly looking to Stephen.

It’s a gargantuan effort to walk even the few feet towards the chair in the corner, what with the crushing weight that settles itself in the centre of Stephen’s chest. As he retrieves his clothes the cloak floats over and perches back on his shoulders.

The feeling is exacerbated when he looks at Tony, a horrible contradiction. The desire to stay and perhaps never let Tony out of his sight because it proves that this is _real_ , that the man is alive, is at odds with his need to run far, far away until he can stop and lock up all the dark things and shove them back in the recesses of his mind where they belong. He wants Tony to understand but knows he can’t ask that of him.

“I’m fine,” he replies. “You said it yourself: it was just a nightmare. It wasn’t real.” _Liar_ , something in his mind shoots back and his stomach turns.

“Stephen -”

“Look, I should probably go. I’ve already stayed too long, I have… other matters to attend to back at the Sanctum. Thank you for your hospitality,” Stephen says, then after a beat of pause adds, “I’ll return your sweater.”

“Keep it,” Tony mutters with a small sigh; he shrugs as Stephen draws out his sling ring and conjures a portal, amber sparks hissing in the centre of the room. “Thanks for coming today. We really appreciate it, y’know.”

Stephen only gives a curt nod as he steps through the portal back to the comforting silence of the Sanctum.

 

\--

 

The nightmares started with the crash.

Mangled metal and the smell of burnt rubber; torn skin and crushed bones and blood; the taste of iron.

The memory a haunting constant, a reminder. One which followed him from the sterile walls and fluorescent overhead lights of the hospital all the way back to his high-rise apartment, a vision of opulence, a dream – _his_ dream, once upon a time, he thought – somehow the dark silence so much more oppressive than before. After long days and nights of calls across timezones to London, Vienna, Singapore, and after swallowing inadvisable amounts of painkillers to try and stifle the pain for want of a few measly hours rest, even sleep offered no respite.

In dreams, warped visions which somehow seemed to speak to all the worst parts of him. Every time he awoke to silence and his heart beating hard and fast in his chest the darkness seemed to creep a little closer, the loneliness a little more permeating than before.

In Nepal, the memory faded, if only a bit. Though occasionally it would return during the bad nights in his tiny quarters in Kamar-Taj, there was, for the most part, a slight reprieve - too caught up in all the new and wondrous things to be learnt as he was.

Upon return to New York, it was replaced by Dormammu.

And, try though they may, no other monster or interdimensional entity Stephen encountered could _quite_ compete with the scale of that particular torment. At least, not until now. 

Memories of the Dark Dimension now give way to those of Titan; of the Soul Dimension; of fourteen million futures of failure and death - and not only his own, this time. Or, like now, some terrible mix of them all. Would that he could say it’s an improvement.

When Stephen returns to the Sanctum he tries to forget the day’s events, a fool’s errand. Maybe he’s unable to simply _forget_ , and that’s a double edged sword if ever there was one, but at least what he is good at doing is compartmentalising. He doesn’t forget, just doesn’t think about it. Locks up the memories and throws away the key. It works. It’s fine.

And when it doesn’t – well. _See: today._

From the very start the memories always had their ways of coming back. Most commonly in the form of nightmares, sleep being the only time the door is unlocked and the horrors, the regrets and the sins, the millions of doomed futures are let out.

He hasn’t been sleeping well, recently.

It’s perhaps no surprise that Stephen rarely manages to snatch more than a few hours at a time, passed out in an armchair in his study or on a sofa in the foyer, when he wakes screaming or crying or feeling like throwing up, memories of Titan etched raw into his mind. Astral projection helps, sometimes. Sometimes it only makes it worse; serves to amplify the dark things that lie in the space between consciousness and oblivion.

More than once, Stephen has found himself in the middle of the night, standing over a tome splayed out on a table in the library, open to a page on a memory loss spell. Shaking fingers ghost over the incantation written in ink on the aged paper, faded to sepia. He’d shut the book tightly and march himself out of the room, anywhere his legs would take him – to the kitchen, the study, even out into the dark and cold streets of Manhattan. Trying to suppress the part of his mind pleading for rest, for _ignorance_ , in favour of the majority that really knows better.

Spells to destroy memories, especially one’s own, were tricky. Ill-advised, as described by the paragraph of small print under the complicated sigils that Stephen only glanced over. He’s pretty sure – no, _certain_ – that he could pull it off, just – not at the moment.

Not yet, he knows, when he catches a glance in the mirror in the first floor gallery and sees a sorcerer who seems so much more unsure than before. He’s not sure he _should_ forget, either.

Shapeless things form the basis of his dreams that night, when he gets home and soon after passes out again on the bed he hasn’t touched in a week. The scene changes between Bleecker street, the Avengers Compound, and somewhere else in New York – the inside of a tall building; bright lights and a blue glow from some complicated looking tech lining the walls; large windows reflecting the Manhattan skyline and a view not unlike that of his old apartment on the upper east side.

Stephen wakes feeling a little melancholy as he stares at the familiar ceiling. And then he remembers Tony’s face from the previous day, worried frown and eyes bleeding compassion, and the guilt hits like a punch in the gut.

His cloak, sensing Stephen is awake, shifts from it’s position on top of him and starts nudging at his face. “Stop,” Stephen mumbles, swatting it away. A couple more minutes pass of staring at the ceiling and listening to the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, before he sighs hard and gets up.

Stephen thinks of Titan everyday; it’s not like this is anything new. It’s almost funny how a single decision could weigh so heavily on his mind even now.

Still – he’s fought it back this far, and he can continue to do as such. Battle a couple of demonic entities and it’ll be like nothing even happened yesterday. He just needs to stop thinking about Tony Stark and the way his eyes looked reflecting the low evening light.

The Sanctum is quiet in the morning, but when Stephen trudges into his study a fresh mug of coffee and a book from the Kamar-Taj library Stephen had mentioned in passing to Wong the other day sit waiting on the table by the window. Stephen really doesn’t deserve him.

A few hours of research and trips around Manhattan later the effective ‘to-do’ list is cleared and Stephen finally has the chance to breathe, until the next crisis inevitably comes along. He spends the late afternoon trying to lose himself in reading, when the door to the study swings open softly and Wong enters.

Stephen looks up and nods in greeting, and Wong asks casually, “what did Stark need yesterday?”

Stephen rolls his eyes to mask the way he feels his heartrate quicken ever so slightly. “Oh, you know, the usual superhero stuff. And lucky me, I’m their back-up now, apparently. Great to know the mystic arts are being properly appreciated by the grand ol Avengers, right?”

“I thought you declined Stark’s request,” Wong states in reply, sharp eyes watching him with a scrutiny that always makes Stephen feel like he’s doing something wrong. 

“It was an emergency,” Stephen explains simply.

“Stephen…“ Wong begins, then sighs, more resigned than angry. “You know what I said about -”

“I’m _fine_ , Wong. Still standing, right?”

Wong’s eyes glance down to the book open before Stephen and linger a moment too long; Stephen swiftly closes it on the passage on _Atlantean black magic_ he was reading.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Stephen murmurs as he gets up and paces across the room. “Don’t.”

“So you expect me to say nothing?” Wong protests, but Stephen has already walked away, hands clasped tight together in front of him. Their shaking has gotten worse over the past months, unless Stephen is imagining things now too. He wouldn’t be surprised. “Stephen, as your friend, I can’t just ignore this anymore. You’ve been far too reckless with magic lately – you’re going to end up killing yourself at this rate.”

Numbly Stephen acknowledges that Wong is absolutely correct; there’s hardly anything he can say to deny it. It’s easy enough to bluff to someone who knows nothing of the mystic arts, to keep anything from his best friend is much harder.

(It’s often said that all magic has a price, and if so, Stephen’s been racking up quite the expenses lately. The least he can do in the interim between now and his due is try and do some good for the world.

It will never be enough, but at least he can say he is trying to absolve himself of everything he’s done. He’s _trying_.)

“What would you have me do, Wong?” Stephen asks quietly as he comes to a stop by the window, staring out, unfocused.

“Talk to me,” the other man answers simply, not a hint of pity or condescension. “You always try to bear everything alone. If it’s like before, like Dormammu, I can help -”

“It’s not,” Stephen says flatly; his own voice sounds foreign to his ears. “It’s not like Dormammu.” _It’s so much worse._

A few seconds pass, and Stephen doesn’t turn to see Wong’s reaction. He hears the other sigh softly, and assumes Wong has left, until he speaks again.

“Then at the least you should speak to him.”

“What?” Stephen begins, surprised, as he spins around.

“To Stark,” Wong clarifies, though that much was obvious. Stephen scowls as Wong walks over. “Something happened, right? You’re looking even more destitute than usual today.”

Stephen rubs at his face with his palm – and, gods, how is he still tired even after sleeping – for once – through the night? Exhaustion seems to fill his very bones nowadays; he can barely remember how it ever felt before.

At Wong’s words he thinks of the way Tony looked at him last night, the silent understanding. Yes, perhaps something did happen, and it terrifies Stephen not only to have accidentally bared his heart so openly to the man, but that Tony recognised that vulnerability so easily.

“I can’t,” Stephen replies. “Not after… after everything. I couldn’t, I – I don’t know.” He sighs hard.

“I think you might be surprised,” Wong mutters. “He asked about you, you know. While you were gone. I think he only ever wanted to understand you better.”

Stephen looks up sharply, but Wong continues before the true weight of those words can sink in:

“If anyone could understand, surely it would be him?”

“...Perhaps,” Stephen admits finally. “I’m that obvious, huh?”

“No.” Wong claps a hand on his shoulder and the gesture is as reassuring as it is familiar. “I just know you too well.”

 

\--

 

Stephen and Wong fall back into routine, more out of necessity than anything else. There are still rifts in reality and shadows in the aether which demand their immediate attention more so than the unshakeable feeling of guilt and wrongness which still plagues Stephen’s heart. He tries to ignore it.  

He catches Wong staring sometimes, not unkindly, only with the same stoic expression he always bears. He never brings up the topic of Tony or all the rest of it again though, and Stephen is grateful for it.

A few days pass, and Stephen has every intention to speak to Tony again – really, he does. He just can’t think of the words to say.

An unusual amount of activity in the astral dimension sees Stephen on a stint through the astral realm one afternoon. A rift in the dimension, a simple enough fix; he returns to the Sanctum and his corporeal body where he left it, sitting in mid-air in the corner of his study, more through feeling than anything else.

When he blinks open his real eyes, straining to focus for a moment from the brighter lights in the room, he nearly falls from his position when he sees someone else there. Someone who is most certainly _not_ Wong, or any of the other masters or apprentices or anyone at all he would expect to see.

“Tony,” he simply blurts out in acknowledgement since all other words fail him.

Tony looks up at his name, further cementing the likelihood that this is the real Tony Stark and not a hallucination some part of Stephen’s exhausted mind has conjured. The latter would be less surprising, really. The cloak shifts behind Stephen when his feet touch the ground, and he walks over to his guest, facing him across the desk Tony is standing next to.

“Hi,” Tony says casually. “Wong let me in. He said it was alright. Don’t worry, I’ve only been waiting ten minutes,” he adds with a wink and a nod to where Stephen was floating.

Stephen tries not to think about that too hard. His eyes flicker down to the desk and the book Tony is flicking absently through. “Don’t touch that,” Stephen mutters as he drags the tome describing some particularly nasty blood magic rituals from Tony’s hands and snaps it shut with a dusty thud. None of it’s in English, but still. “But, uh, sure. You’re welcome here whenever. What’s the situation this time?”

“Oh, no situation. We got all the business from the other day sorted, so don’t worry ‘bout it. Carol Danvers is a god-send,” he admits with a small breath that’s almost a laugh. “How’s your arm, by the way?”

“Hm?” Stephen voices in confusion, before remembering the injury he got that day. It feels so long ago, so insignificant in comparison to everything else. “Oh, right. It was nothing, it’s fine now.”

Tony glances him over, not subtly, with serious eyes before he eventually concedes. “If you say so. Listen, I wanted to talk about the other day.”

The tomes on the table and their faded leather covers keep Stephen’s gaze as he recounts the events from a few days ago, as if they haven’t been playing on his mind on repeat since then. Tony walks around to Stephen’s side of the table but he dares not look up; his throat turns dry as he thinks of that terrible nightmare and tries to keep his voice as level as possible when he asks, “about what?”

In front of him Tony crosses his arms, sentinel and uncompromising as ever, but as Stephen glances over he sees that worried edge to his expression again – the very same as before and it’s like someone has jammed a hot poker in Stephen’s gut.

“I was going to come visit earlier, but I guess I never got the chance,” Tony begins. “I was fine that you didn’t want to join the Avengers after everything, you know. Didn’t think you’d completely drop off the face of the planet and start ignoring me, but hey, we’ve all been busy. But I’m starting to think maybe I should’ve found the time.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Stephen mutters.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because the first I see of you in months, you pull some crazy magic trick in that battle and end up practically collapsing immediately after?”

“I knew what I was doing, I don’t see -”

“Yeah, cause it’s not like this is a new thing, right? Because Wong was telling me all about it earlier. He’s really worried about you. Like, I don’t think he likes me very much, so for him to tell _me_ about it, he must be really worried.” Stephen huffs and is about to retort something back but Tony doesn’t give him the chance. “ _I’m_ worried too – I mean, after the other day. When I woke you up from that nightmare you looked at me like the goddamn world was ending and started _apologising_. I don’t know what to make of it, and… okay, you don’t have to explain yourself to me if you don’t want to, but I can’t just forget it, alright?”

There’s something that goes unsaid, unknown if not for the look in Tony’s eyes – pleading, deeply knowing. A look that says, _I’ve been there, please, let me help_.

Stephen shuts his eyes tightly. “It was Titan.”

“I - What?”

“The nightmare. It’s always about Titan.” He looks over once more to Tony’s disturbed expression and besides the twist of guilt in his heart at bringing up the subject he tries to engrave that face in his mind; _don’t run away_. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you, as well. I should’ve apologised properly, far earlier. I’m sorry for that, too. And… well, for everything. I am sorry.”

It doesn’t change anything, and Stephen knows that. He’s not deserving of Tony’s forgiveness, and he’s fine with that, too – but still.

Tony is silent, so Stephen takes that as permission to continue. All of a sudden he has the urge to tear everything out, to lay his heart bare before Tony, because he can’t take the weight of it anymore - especially not with Tony looking at him with those worried and caring eyes. Better that they should be hateful, _angry_ , he wishes.

“You know, even now, I still can’t look Peter in the eye,” Stephen says, a wry smile ghosting his lips as he thinks of the teenager. “He’s visited the Sanctum a few times… I think he was hoping we could be friends.”

“He’s a good kid,” Tony says, breaking his silence. Stephen nods numbly in agreement.

“Yes, he is. But he shouldn’t have been there. He shouldn’t have died that day – no one should have. And that’s on me.”

“Stephen, you…” Tony begins searchingly; Tony Stark, for once, at a loss for words, “You told me that there was no other way.”

“That’s true,” Stephen replies without hesitation, and paces shakily across the room, presses the edges of his palms hard into his eyes. Hands which now betray him, useless as usual, shaking near uncontrollably.

From Titan, even with their pieced together team, through every single permutation of the fight with Thanos, it really was the only way. The only way out of a situation Stephen had shoehorned them into in the first place. He thinks back to the very beginning – to his brash over-confidence and certainty that he could protect the time stone against anything – he hadn’t truly comprehended the magnitude of the threat, back then, not really. Not until it was too late, as cliché as it sounds.

It was arrogance, pure and simple. Barely two years as a Master of the Mystic Arts and he had already regressed into bad habits.

“Please believe me when I say that, Tony,” Stephen continues. And, then – he stops and turns back to face the other man, looking Tony straight in the eyes, because there is something he needs to clarify. “I don’t regret what I did,” he states, and prays his sincerity comes across, because he _needs_ Tony to understand this, at the very least. “I don’t regret saving your life, not for a second. But the fact still remains – I did. I made a conscious decision to give up the time stone, knowing full well what the consequences of that action would be. That wasn’t Thanos, or anyone else, that was _me_.”

Stephen’s voice near cracks on his last statement – it feels like a confession. The room is unbearably silent for a few seconds too long before Tony speaks again:

“I know why you did it,” he states, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, like he’s sharing a secret between the two of them, something gentler. “You did it because you’re a good man, who is willing to protect our world, at any cost.”

“You remember, soon after it was all over, I came to the Sanctum?” Tony asks before Stephen can reply, and Stephen does remember; he remembers a man with a heart full of sorrow and grief and righteous fury, and how he could do nothing but stand there and _agree_ with the words, thrown at him like daggers, because how dare he? To trade the lives of so many for one, the chess master playing with innocent people like pieces on a board.

(He remembers how he’d played distant, how he’d not bothered explaining why he did what he did, because how could he possibly describe the alternative? Those millions of futures, a playback reel in fragments, all the death and loss and suffering retained both crystal clear in his mind and blurred together over time until nothing but the concepts remained.

He remembers how he had waited until Tony left, tired of trying to pry reason from him, then retreated to his room, locked the door and tried to wait out the fresh wave of guilt that racked his heart and threatened to reacquaint him with his lunch. And finally – he remembers how he was glad, really, truly, from the bottom of his heart, that despite all it cost he was able to save Tony Stark on Titan. And not knowing what the hell _that_ meant.)

After that, there had been the other Avengers and the olive branches. But of course Stephen never forgot, and perhaps, in his mind he doubted that Tony would ever change his.

“I didn’t get it, back then,” Tony confesses. “I said some terrible things, and you just… let me. At the time I didn’t get that, either.”

Tony stops, and takes a deep breath like he’s trying to steady himself for what he’s about to say next. A gnawing feeling grows in Stephen’s stomach. He’s seen the distant look Tony will get sometimes, dark circles hidden behind glasses on a face that could’ve jumped from any tabloid magazine; they’re not nearly close enough for Tony to let those walls downs, but Stephen knows he’s not the only one who’s been fighting with demons these past months.

“Listen, we don’t have to talk about this,” Stephen says, although his voice is shaky and holds none of the command it usually does, so his protest is shut down almost immediately.

“No, we do. In retrospect, I should have known since – since then. You gave up the time stone, even despite knowing that you would die because of it.”

“It’s not about me,” Stephen murmurs immediately in reply, parroting the words the Ancient One told him so long ago now. How he wants to believe he still lives up to them. He shakes his head, frowning. “It’s never been about me, my life wasn’t ever a condition for victory.”

“See, this is it,” Tony says and moves a step closer. There’s a hesitation to his movements, something quite unusual for Tony, like he’s facing Stephen as a scared animal about to flee. Stephen doesn’t move away, and a part of him aches to close the gap between them.

“I don’t know anything about what _you_ were thinking, back then,” Tony continues, “but that – it _meant_ something to me. Sure, I was angry as hell at the time, but you put that much faith in us – in me. I carried that with me.”

“I left you with the weight of the entire universe on your shoulders, that’s not -”

“Yeah, it fucking sucked, and it was also the _only thing_ that gave me any hope to keep going.

“It was you, and your cryptic wizard _bullshit_ – but I trusted in you – trusted in whatever the hell it was you saw that made you save my life. That made you put your trust in me.”

When Tony’s words run out his eyes are wide and serious, blazing with determination, and everything else Stephen loves about them. Stephen doesn’t dare reply what with the lump in his throat; he blinks, trying to force back the tears which form like needle pricks in his eyes.

He can only nod in reply, hopes it’s enough. It feels now as it did on Titan, that terrifying certainty that he would put his faith in Tony – not blindly, but after witnessing all the conviction and grit and flaws and sheer tenacity of the man through millions of alternates. It was what allowed him to believe in that one future, to do what he knew had to be done, even if it meant condemning half the universe to death and going against everything he thought he stood for.

But perhaps from a point of retrospect, now, his choice was clear in one regard; Stephen would give his life, however many times over, for Tony’s.

“You’re a good man, Stephen Strange,” Tony says softly. “Even if you are a self-sacrificing idiot.”

Stephen laughs, a single harsh sound which turns into a sob in the back of his throat, and he can’t stop the few tears that manage to escape. He squeezes his eyes shut and roughly brushes the wetness away with a hand; a few moments of brutal silence pass as he tries to compose himself.

When he opens his eyes Tony has inched ever so slightly closer, and when Stephen lets his hands drop, Tony’s hover to meet them.

“May I?” he asks, watching Stephen, tentative and calculating. Stephen nods, and Tony gently takes one of Stephen’s hands into his. Even when held Stephen can feel the terrible shaking of his hand in Tony’s, but he doesn’t pull away. Not when Tony’s hands are so steady and true, warm and real.

“Is this the point where I’m supposed to say something about you being a hypocrite?” Stephen mutters.

Tony stops tracing the lines over the back of Stephen’s hand for a second, mocks being hurt. “Ouch, go for the throat, why don’t you,” he objects, but his tone is light, eyes playful when they look up to meet Stephen’s. “But probably.”

“Well. You are.”

Stephen is content to stay like that a few minutes longer, to simply indulge in Tony’s presence and whatever this is, but eventually he sighs and retreats his hand from Tony’s grasp, even if it makes his heart ache to do so. “I’m sorry.” Tony glances up sharply but before he can say anything Stephen elaborates, “It’s been a long week.”

“More like long couple of months, right?”

“For all of us.”

“Mm,” Tony hums noncommittally in response, and Stephen knows not to push his luck.

“I’m going to make some tea,” Stephen declares, running a hand through his hair. “Would you… care to stay, a while?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say no to a coffee,” Tony says with a small grin.

Stephen finds himself returning that smile before he even thinks about it. He shows Tony to the kitchen downstairs, and the heavy atmosphere immediately falls away, is replaced by something lighter.

It’s almost like friendship, though perhaps not quite. Perhaps with the underlying hope of something more that Stephen doesn’t care to think about right now. But it’s so natural it feels like breathing and it’s _nice_ , and Tony is a sharpness and such a contrast to his usual routine and world, and Stephen hopes, for once, that this isn’t the last he sees of Tony Stark.

“So,” Tony begins with a posture of seriousness, when they’re seated at the kitchen table with tea and coffee and an open box of biscuits between them. “May I ask now why, exactly, you’ve been ignoring me all this time?”

“I haven’t been _ignoring_ you, as such…”

“You have too, I’ve texted you on multiple occasions, including inviting you to the exclusive Avenger’s poker night and yet not a single reply. Fine, whatever, leave me on read, see if I care.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Stephen exclaims in sudden understanding. “Would it make you feel any better if I said I genuinely forgot about those?”

Tony stares him down with a look of utter disappointment.

“I’ve been _busy_ ,” he weakly tries to justify.

“Well, I guess you can make it up to me if you promise to come next Saturday. Trust me, it’s a fun time, but I think with you there it’ll be even better.”

Stephen breathes out a laugh. “Fine. It’s a date.” Tony raises his eyebrows. “I mean – it’s not a – oh, you know what I mean, douchebag.”

Tony laughs at that, and Stephen’s heart feels so light he could be flying. “See, there’s that quick wit and charm I missed so much. You really should team up with us more often.”

“We’ll see,” Stephen mutters with a small quirk of his lips.

“Consulting?”

“We’ll _see_.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I began this simply because I wanted to see more fic of Stephen having nightmares, but then I started thinking about IW in more depth and it became… well, whatever this is. I feel like I barely scratched the surface of my thoughts on Stephen’s actions in IW but honestly it would take a fic at least 10x as long to even begin to unpack everything, so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Title is taken from Politics of Love by Rise Against (good song, works for ironstrange if you squint). Thanks for reading, and please feel free to let me know what you thought! & hmu on tumblr/twitter @phierie(e) and talk to me about Stephen Strange


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